The one day in a year
by alkyone
Summary: Because there always is a day when the memories of those who died are more painful than in any other day.


**A/N**: This comes out of nowhere. I tried to play with a form, and I finished with this. I want to thank **Shadow-chan** who corrected most of this text and **Vivian-chan** who added some of her spirit in the final part, since I changed it slightly. Thank you girls a lot.

And one more: _I do not own Detective Conan and Magic Kaito_, _and it's better this way. With my drawing skills it would be a mess ;)_

* * *

**The one day in a year.**

.**  
**

She wakes up. Eyes wide open. The alarm clock rings just a minute later. She takes hot shower, drinks coffee for breakfast and runs to work.

As always the train is very crowded. People smile and chat. Some of them read the morning newspapers. Some try to catch few more minutes of sleep. Teenage girls giggle. One of them reaches into her purse and pulls out her new perfume. She sprays them only on her wrist but soon the whole car is filled with the delicate fragrance of jasmine and roses.

She sighs. The smell of roses irritates her pointing the obvious. The train stops, and she pushes her way to the exit. She leaves those people with their roses scent. Not quickly enough. It's still hoovering around her, creating a painful feeling in her chest.

She quickens her pace. When she reaches the street, she takes a deep breath. Someone is smoking. She coughs when the sharp smell of cigarettes encroaches upon her throat. But she doesn't turn and yell that it's not a place for smoking, she's happy for distraction.

It is the same day as yesterday. Nothing changes. Nothing happened.

Nothing.

She crosses the door to headquarters and she catches a few worried looks. She smiles to her co-workers, to show them that she's fine. She buys another coffee in the coffee machine, forgetting to add the sugar. She takes files from a reception desk, and goes to the office. The hot coffee burns her fingers, but she shows another smile to the people who she meets in the elevator.

She doesn't lock the door to her office. Why make those people worry? After all she feels perfectly fine.

Nothing happened.

* * *

The door shuts after a first person who asks her if she really is fine. They are smart enough to not believe in her strained smile. They openly point out it is too early for coffee, the lack of sugar in it, and her shaking hands. They shut the door after themselves just before the pack of files hits it.

The coffee tastes bitter, and now it annoys her. She looks around, knowing that she used the last tea spoon of sugar two days ago. After a moment of hesitation, she decides that she doesn't need sugar anyway.

She tries to work. Eyes are tracing the lines of text but nothing registers into her mind.

Files land into the trash bin.

She hides her face into her hands. Her figure is shaking. She isn't crying.

The thought she tried to keep buried before - the scent of roses stirred it – was now resurfacing into her mind. It starts to grow and grow with anger. And for a firs time this day she asks herself: why did it have to happen to her.

She asked loudly and the question seems to echo in the empty room. And it wasn't fading. Its force was rising and she has to get up and leave.

She closes the door roughly, catching the attention of few people who are passing by. One of them dares to asks her if she's fine, and she throws him a look that gives him an answer.

Laughing couple next to the coffee machine makes her feel sick. It was a stab of jealousy. Others can be happy, others can have normal life. She knows she isn't fair, judging someone just by one laugh and because she is in bad mood. She isn't fair but she wasn't treated fairly either.

She always believes in fate. It gives hope that no matter what, she will be happy. Every good story finishes with a _happily ever after._ Why couldn't her story finish that way?

Another coin inserted into the machine, another cup of coffee. What? That can't be too much. Three coffees in the morning? She doesn't care. Fate messed up badly, she isn't going to make things easy for it.

Back at the office she realizes that once again she forgot to add sugar.

* * *

She glares at the calendar.

She would do anything to removed that day from there. She would do anything to forget that that day ever happened.

Day is passing, and she stares at the date. Black Arabic numerals stand still. No matter how much effort she puts or how strong of a will she has, the numerals don't change.

Yesterday she had a very hard day. She arrived home and was too tired that to even take a shower. She barely had enough strength to change into her pajamas. She just wanted to sleep. Her limbs ached with every move. Too many things buzzed in her head, making her feel dizzy. She couldn't even remember her name.

And still, she would prefer to live yesterday once again instead of today. Or to at least and skip to tomorrow.

* * *

She knows the moment too well as time slows down. She can't hear the ticking of the clock; sounds in the background blend in one rustling noise at the edge of inaudibility; incenses are burning, burning and burning still, slowly replacing the scent of freshly brewed tea. Delicate smoke blurs the edges of the face on the photograph. It doesn't matter anyway. She memorized every detail of the photograph. Her own memory fades as the time passed like the smoke coming from the incenses as it slowly dissipates.

She knows it. It happens every once in a year.

The glowing tips of incenses, the face on the photograph visible in the dim light coming from the street lamps, the sickly smell of the sandalwood. Seconds seem like hours. A call from her father finally brings the tears. The burning feeling in her lungs turns into muffled sobs.

Every once in a year.

The face in a photograph smiles to her happily. The corners of the lips were lifted up only a bit so it wouldn't let the smile of eyes escape. The eyes were blue, so very blue, and the hair seemed ruffled by the wind.

Funny how slowing time has no effect on a tea. When she brings a mug to her lips to soothe this burning feeling in her dry throat, the tea is already cold. She feels its paper taste. It only emphasizes the saltiness of her tears. But she needs it, just like a thirsty man in a desert needs water. Fingers clench on a handle tightly to the point she couldn't feel them anymore.

Time stops.

Memories storm her head. Memories without edges. Shreds in sepia. The feeling of warm fingers interlaced with hers. Golden sunset. The warmth of that voice. A room with white walls and white floor. A wedding ring on the bedside table. The texture of the sand.

Something which was once an unbroken stream, now leaves the feeling she can reach around the corner and catch it. The more she wants to reach them, the more she feels the memories slipping through her fingers. To save something more than the warmth of the voice, to save the whole timbre.

Useless.

Time is cruel. It runs when she needs it so much. It slows when she wishes days would go by faster. It stops, when she wants so badly to hear another second coming. It laughs straight in her face, when it blurred her memories.

It never moves back.

* * *

She didn't hear the creak of the door, but she felt the roses.

The face from the picture was smiling at her, and the smell of roses made the eyes sparkle. Silent crying became loud sobs. She was sitting on the floor with her hands wrapped around her legs, and her chin resting on her knees. She didn't know it, but she was rocking herself like a sick child.

She felt sick.

Something in the hall fell with a thud. She heard quick footsteps. The scent of roses came closer. She was breathing in its sweetness. She knew what was coming; she'd longed for it the whole day.

Strong arms embraced her.

Though it was hard, she turned in this embrace, just to face the man she loved the most. She buried her head in the crook of his neck, smearing wet traces of her tears on his shirt. One of his hands rubbed her back gently, the other was keeping her close like he never meant to let her go.

A shield.

"Shhh..." his soft voice was hushing her.

He was hugging her just like their lives depended on it. She was so close to him, that she heard his heartbeat. She felt his breath on her cheek. This was the safest place she had known. She was losing herself into his warm embrace. Her fingers clutched his shirt firmly.

"You're here." she muttered quietly into his chest.

"I managed to catch the earlier plane." he said looking deep into her eyes. "I'm so sorry Aoko, that I couldn't come earlier. I know how hard this day is for you..."

She knew he wanted to be with her. She was sure it wasn't easy to catch this earlier plane.

"Kaito, you didn't have to." she said not being able to hide how happy she was that he came.

"I know." he said softly.

In a dim light his warm smile was barely visible, but she didn't have to see his face to know its expression. She could tell just by the sound of his voice.

"But I wanted." he added, pulling her even closer.

He was all she needed to remember that world wasn't ending. That there was still life to live. Her memories were like pearls she should keep, but she shouldn't be lost in them.

Everything clicked in right places.

The day was coming to the end.

* * *

_There are five stages of grief._

_Denial._

_Anger._

_Bargaining._

_Depression._

_Acceptance._

* * *

**A/**N: Now just to clear the things up. The story is about anniversary of Aoko's mother's death. I wanted to achieve some effect writing this like that, but I'm not sure if I managed. Let me know what you think, so I will know.


End file.
